d with humanity's passionate hope. He saw life
light-footed in a sweet chase for things ideal. And all the blackness
of the rock and of the silent sea was irradiated with the light that
streamed from a growing soul.

A voice--an inquiring, searching voice, surely, rose quivering from some
distance on the sea, startling Vere and Artois. It was untrained
but unshy, and the singer forced it with resolute hardihood that was
indifferent to the future. Artois had never heard the Marchesino sing
before, but he knew at once that it was he. Some one at the island must
surely have told the determined youth that Vere was voyaging, and he
was now in quest of her, sending her an amorous summons couched in the
dialect of Naples.

Vere moved impatiently.

"Really!" she began.

But she did not continue. The quivering voice began another verse.
Artois had said nothing, but, as he sat listening to this fervid
protestation, a message illuminated as it were by the vibrato, he began
to hate the terrible frankness of the Italian nature which, till now, he
had thought he loved. The beauty of reticence appealed to him in a new
way. There was savagery in a bellowed passion. The voice was travelling.
They heard it moving onward towards Nisida. Artois wondered if Vere knew
who was the singer. She did not leave him long in doubt.

"Now's our chance, Monsieur Emile!" she said, suddenly, leaning towards
him. "Row to the island for your life, or the Marchesino will catch us!"

Without a word he bent to the oars.

"How absurd the Marchesino is!"

Vere spoke aloud, released from fear.

"Absurd? He is Neapolitan."

"Very well, then! The Neapolitans are absurd!" said Vere, with
decision. "And what a voice! Ruffo doesn't sing like that. That shaking
sounds--sounds so artificial."

"And yet I dare say he is very much in earnest."

Artois was almost pleading a cause against his will.

"Oh!"

The girl gave almost a little puff that suggested a rather childish
indignation.

"I like the people best," she added. "They say what they feel simply,
and it means ever so much more. Am I a democrat?"

He could not help laughing.

"Chi lo sa? An Anarchist perhaps."

She laughed too.

"Bella tu si--Bella tu si! It's too absurd! One would think--"

"What, Vere?"

"Never mind. Don't be inquisitive, Monsieur Emile."

He rowed on meekly.

"There is San Francesco's light," she said, in a moment. "I wonder if it
is late. Have we been away long?